


Keep the Beauty locked and throw the key away

by sepherim_ml



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, Gangbang, Incest, M/M, Mpreg, Mpreg mentioned, Object Insertion, Purgatory, Rape/Non-con References, Whipping, Wincest - Freeform, broken!dean, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:04:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sepherim_ml/pseuds/sepherim_ml
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His days as hunter are long gone and, now, trapped in Purgatory, Dean is a fine prey for every monster he had met previously. He runs, fights and hides, but there's a limit to his luck. But then, when everything seems lost, Crowley makes an offer that Dean is not in the position to refuse. Written for <a href="http://spn-hardcore-bb.livejournal.com">spn_hardcore_bb</a> on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep the Beauty locked and throw the key away

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** I wrote this Mini Bang back in July, so there aren’t any spoilers for Season 8. Descriptions of Purgatory, the dynamics and metaphysics of soul/monsters/demons/angels are completely my own and part of my crazy headcanon.
> 
> Acknowledgements: you can find full a/n [HERE](http://mstrssl-fanfic.livejournal.com/27678.html), including LINK to the art post.

**Pairings:** Crowley/Dean (dub–con, con), Sam/Dean (con), Demons/Dean, Alistair/Dean, Castiel/Dean (non–con)  
 **Full list of warnings** : con, dub–con and non–con m/m sex, gangbang, torture – whipping, voyeurism, object insertion – dildo, broken!Dean, slavery, blowjob, incest, mpreg (mentioned for future), Post–Season 7 finale. No spoiler for season 8.

  
  
  


 

[ ](http://sepherim-ml.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/379/3506)

   
 

  
**–ﬡ –**   


 

 

  
It's almost always pitch black. There are occasional bursts of light – purple or red – but so faint that it's impossible to distinguish more than some shapes in the dark.  
  
There are trees and bushes, but none of them are real. It's like a fake setting, where each component is a twisted piece of furniture that only adds to the overall creepiness of the place. Snarling and screaming are the constant background noises, and Dean can almost guess to which type of creatures those sounds belong to.  
  
He's running. His legs are worn out, but he covers the distance with long strides. The wound on his forearm is dripping blood and occasionally sends sparks of pain to his strained arm and shoulder.  
  
His heart is beating like crazy in his ribcage.  _Thump. Thump. Thump._  He casts a look over his shoulder, assessing the situation. The rawhead is way behind, so Dean slows down, panting and taking deep breaths, looking around to find an eventual place to hide.  
  
As the rustling approaches, Dean quickly scans the area, his heartbeat crazy again. He decides to take a chance and slides under the deep but not–so–tall thorny branches of the bushes under an impressive hollow tree.  
  
His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows down and forces himself not to move. This is the only movement he allows himself to do, except for taking small breaths now and then. He's pressed prone on the ground, his cheek resting on the mud, one of his hands clenching tightly around a rudimentary spear he built with a long woodstick and the tooth of some creature. The only silver Dean has with him is a dagger that he has always kept hidden in his boot, but it's just his last defence and it's only for close–up fights.  
  
Sweat trickles down his face and Dean bites his bottom lip when the rawhead passes right in front of the deep bushes where he is hidden and keeps walking without much of a bulge. Relieved, Dean rolls on his back, flinching when his right shoulder connects to the ground. He has only a couple of minutes before other monsters start sniffing the smell of blood and decide to hunt Dean, so he needs to stop the bleeding fast.  
  
Damn rawhead. Dean tears part of his already tored up shirt in a long stripe. He doesn't have the time to take off the jacket, so he just opens Bobby's flask and pour the last alcohol on the long cut that it's tearing his shoulder and forearm. He hisses for the pain, then he bandages the stripe tightly around the wound.  
  
Dean dries the sweat on his forehead and he slowly gets up after taking a good look around. A high–pitched shriek signals the beginning of another creature–fight, which is good news for Dean.  _Kill each other, assholes._  
  
He needs to leave his hidden place as soon as possible. The blood of his wound is smeared all over the ground, mixing with the mud and the dead leaves. Another red dawn is clearing the sky, and at this time of day purple and blue are still intertwined together in a weird painting of twisted beauty.  
  
Dean went to Hell. Hellhounds killed him and dragged his soul in the depth of the Pit, where torturers took turns to have fun with him. He saw Hell. He lived there for forty years as a tortured soul and then as a torturer. But, Purgatory is another piece of cake; it's a cage full of monsters that cannot die and Dean is nothing else than a prey. It's not better than Hell.  
  
At first, he ran. He hid himself between bushes and in the caves, sitting in the dark spots and holes on the ground like a goddamn rabbit, scared to move and breathe. It stopped the monsters, for time to time, but it was never enough. Dean caught breath, shivered, then ran in the opposite direction, and all over again.  
  
He's exhausted. His body is drained, his legs sore and he pities himself; the great Dean Winchester, the hunter, is now hunted by a horde of monsters and demons. He tried to find a weapon, but there is nothing there, only broken bones, mud and stones. No guns, no knifes, nothing that Dean can use to defend himself.  
  
Purgatory is a goddamn Hell, even worse, if this keeps going on.  
  
Dean starts to understand bits and pieces of this world every time he has a close encounter with death – then, again, can he die? – : the blood flooding in his veins is a siren call for every creature and every time it's spilled, Dean has to fight even harder. His humanity, his flesh and heart are something never seen in the Purgatory and it's irresistible. It's like everyone there is compelled to hunt him down, to have a bite of his humanity. As in,  _literal_  bite.  
  
Dean is a fine prey and he's been left alone to defend himself. Castiel appears, time to time, to smite the ones that are too close to him, but he never stays. Dean couldn't really blame him, Castiel lost his mind on Earth, but in Purgatory he lost every part of sanity. He saw him sitting on the ground, dressed with only with his trench coat, giggling like a psychopath while he was dissecting one of the shapeshifters. Angels hunt him, and Raphael is a goddamn train wreck every time he catches him.  
  
No one has powers, there. Just Castiel, and it's probably something that has to do with the deity that he had once. He's probably the most powerful creature there, but he's so off the rock he can't be taken into consideration.  
  
Dean tried to make him see that they have to stick together in there and sometimes Castiel understands, he curls his lips, he tilts his head, returning to be the old Cas, but it's for a moment, then he gets back to be the crazy dumbass version of himself.  
  
In the end, Dean is alone. He's the goddamn Little Red Riding Hood of the situation, but he's quickly fading, the exhaustion makes him being reckless and distracted. This isn't supposed to go on forever, surely Sam is doing something on Earth to take him back – probably Cas too –, Dean is sure of it, but the time is stretching out and Dean is damn exhausted. He's still human with (some) human needs, and he's involved in a never–ending hunt. He doesn't know how much he can resist.  
  
  
The last blow – or the first of a long line of harsh blows – comes with an old friend.  
  
  
His shoulder is still a bloody mess and Dean is trying to find shelter somewhere in the darkness of a moonless night; dashes of purple smear the dark fake sky, now lightened up with rare lightnings. Trying to remember where to spend a couple of hours safe and sound, Dean moves towards the caves, but he doesn't make more steps when a hand clutches his wounded shoulder and Dean let out a pained and surprised cry.  
  
"Oh. Sweet sound. I'm flattered," a smooth voice says. Dean turns around, his shoulder still gripped tightly. "Hello, Dean. Miss me?"  
  
He's honest–to–god Alistair and Dean trembles slightly. In a flash, he remembers his time in Hell, with Alistair chocking his humanity out of him until Dean has nothing left, just a bloody mess where once were his morality and his principles.  
  
"Alistair."  
  
"You were good, hiding and ducking, but Dean, you cannot be better than me." The blow comes hard and unexpected and Dean falls to the ground, his cheek hurting and burning. "I was  _dying_  to welcome you properly."  
  
"I bet you are, you son of a bitch," Dean tries to stand up, but Alistair is shaking his head. His hand is clutching the knife hidden in his boot, but Alistair kicks him, and Dean let out a howl of pain when his fingers broke.  
  
"No, no, no. None of that, Dean. Unless you want me to use it on you."  
  
"Try me."  
  
"I'll try you soon enough, love."  
  
Dean jumps up, the knife in his hand again, aiming to damage that son of a bitch, but Alistair isn't tired and wounded like him, he's faster and stronger, and he has Dean down again on his knees in a matter of minutes, his mouth sputtering blood.  
  
"Once my pet, always my pet, my love," Alistair sneers and inserts his index finger in the open wound on Dean's shoulder, dripping blood and smiling when Dean's face twists in agony. He smears the red paint on Dean's lips, coating them like he's using a lipstick. "You're so pretty, Dean. So, so pretty. Like a little girl."  
  
Waves of disgust hit Dean, leaving him shivering. He tries to command his legs to run, but he's compelled to stay. It's Alistair's never–ending spell, his skills of torturer have nothing on his ability to manipulate and rape minds. He broke Dean's mind long ago, he mapped all his soft spots, his weaknesses, his doubts, and he feasted with them, and in the end he had the perfect little pet – Dean – welcoming the humiliation and the pain like he couldn't hope in anything different.  
  
"That's all your worth for, Dean," Alistair repeats his usual words with soft voice, almost soothing. "Tears and blood. You, spreading yourself on the altar of pain, crying like a little girl."  
  
Dean's body shudders and shakes, his muscles trembling under the threat to give up and crawl. Where is Cas?  
  
"Not anymore," he finally manages to spit out. "Not your little bitch anymore." This isn't hell.  
  
"Once my pet, always my pet," repeats the demon, unimpressed, or maybe slightly amused by Dean's weak attempt to fight back. "I can have you doing anything I want. You will obey me, pet."  
  
Dean screams under Alistair's hands and tortures, he tries desperately and uselessly to fight back, but Alistair is right, in the end, Dean obeys him. He's broken again, asking for mercy, and Alistair's creativity keeps him in the verge of craziness. He wonders if he can die and when he asks for it, Alistair laughs. He stops the ministrations of the whip; he caresses the wounds on his back with the tip of his fingers gracefully, like each one of them is a personal gift to him. Dean shudders, knowing that if Alistair stops a torture, it's only because he has another twisted game in mind. He takes deep breaths until he's allowed, closing his eyes tiredly.  
  
"There is no death, here, pet. Only pain," he whispers directly on his bruised lips. His foul breath is making Dean gagging as the sting of blood, dried and fresh. "But I've never been selfish. Let the other pets having their share."  
  
Dean shakes his head, but Alistair ignores his pleas, he invites the fellow demons that had gathered around them at some point in the fun.  
  
Dean is fucked the first time in Purgatory with blood as lube and the taunting of Alistair and the dozen other demons in the ears.  
  
  
  
  
It's routine now – being fucked – and Dean doesn't even try to escape anymore. He doesn't have the strength to even stand on his own feet, but he lets them dragging him on his hands and knees. He kicked, punched, and spitted the first times, but the demons are outnumbering him and Alistair's whip does the rest. They are all holding him down and passing him around like he's nothing more than a rag doll.  
  
After a while, he stops screaming.  
  
  
  
Dean is being held down, impaled on a demon's cock, while another is fucking his mouth, choking him with his engorged dick. Alistair is still flogging his back and Dean's eyes are swelled in tears for every pitiless blow. They overflow him with filthy words and taunts, until Dean cannot make it anymore and hot tears are trailing down, mixing with the come spilled on his chin and his lips. Then, they laugh, amused, and Alistair increases the whipping, reddening his shoulders and his ass. He likes to fuck him when Dean's ass is painted with blood, he never forces anyone to move, he just double–dicks Dean, enjoying his screams.  
  
  
  
There is much he can take. Dean resisted forty years in hell, he resisted the tortures, the rapes, the rack. Forty years. Dean doesn't know how time is flowing in Purgatory, but he cannot do it anymore.  
  
He takes and takes and takes. He feels like a filthy whore of Hell. They call him like that – Whore of Hell –, complaining that Dean cannot get pregnant and create more and more monsters. It doesn't stop them to try, though, and they fuck and fuck until Dean is a wreck, then they leave him to breathe. They always come back.  
  
  
  
Castiel isn't in the picture anymore. Not the friend. He's one of them, now, one of the faceless scums that fucks him. He always uses regard, as if Dean is still precious to him, and that hurts more than anything. Dean usually bites him and spits on him, but Castiel always comes back and damn, it's ten times better when Alistair is flogging his flesh, making him beg and ask him to stop.  
  
  
At a certain point, he stops waiting for Sam to come and save him. He stops screaming his name, he stops hoping.  
  
  
  
  
Then, Crowley arrives.  
  
  
  
  
  
He's being left in a tangled mess on the ground, his skin is scarred with red stripes, signs of claws and bites spurring purple and black on his skin like complicated tattoos. There isn't a portion of skin that isn't marked and painted with shame. Dean is taking deep breaths, incapable of moving, in the hope to have some rest before the fun starts again, his mind drifting between craziness and unconsciousness.  
  
"Hello, Dean."  
  
Dean looks up, his right cheek still pressed against the ground. There he is, the King of Hell, in his pristine suit, with his usual satisfied grin. In other circumstances Dean would have spitted against him or punched him, but he doesn't have the strength anymore. The last round spent all his energies.  
  
"Fucking gloating, are you?" It's the best he can come with and he barely recognizes his voice, his mouth and throat sore for too much use.  
  
"Well, you are making a pretty sweet view." He doesn't even deny it. He tilts his head, staring at him with his hungry eyes, inspecting each of his scars – old and new – with something like curiosity.  
  
"Are you dead?"  
  
"No, just visiting," Crowley tugs his perfectly ironed jacket, all business–like. "I came to offer you a deal. For old times' sake."  
  
Dean stays quiet, but then snorts, when he notices the seriousness in Crowley's expression. Deal with him? What he can offer? What's the exchange? That doesn't make any sense.  
  
The King of Hell keeps talking: "I have no control over Purgatory, love. But I rule Hell. I can protect you there." Crowley stretches his hand, palm up. "If you come with me, Dean."  
  
"What do you want? I've got nothing."  
  
"You still have yourself," Crowley grins. "You just need to be a pretty little whore for me and I promise you that you will be  _my_  little whore, mine alone."  
  
For a long moment, Dean looks at Crowley. A noise from the rustled dead leaves is signaling the arrival of the Hellhounds, a pack of them, nasty snarling creatures ready for a new round. Dean doesn't budge – he doesn't need to, now –, he grips Crowley's hand like it's his only chance – and it is –. "Yes."  
  
  
  


**–ﬡ –**

  
  
  
  
In 2013 Hell is in uproar. Heaven is no more, the last few angels are cut off from their grace and now they're hiding among the same humans they despised so much. A huge part of humanity is being contaminated by SucroCorp's venoms.  
  
At the dawn of 2014 – the year the world would be no more – demons are living among humans, feeding on them, and dragging their lost souls to Hell. It's a all–you–can–take and, even though Crowley finds appalling the lack of finesse that some demons still have, the result is pretty damn good. It's a smashing victory for him.  
  
Earth is one, big buffet for demons.  
  
There are still some people that still fight, they provide some fun and Crowley likes to play with food. There aren't challenges, more ants that can be squished at any time, so Crowley let them have their stupid hopes. It's even more funny as Sam Winchester is one of them.  _'Leave him alive'_ , Crowley said to some of his minions.  _'Let him suffer.'_  There will be the day when Crowley will have him watch his big brother again, preferably when Crowley is fucking him on his lap, but not now.  
  
Speaking of.  
  
Crowley enters in his huge, luxurious bedroom; a king–size circular bed is in the middle of the room, artistically draped and decorated with all kind of sex toys over the wall.  
  
A beautiful man is sleeping, naked, in the centre of said bed, his beauty put in display like a beautiful ornament in a vanity fair that makes Crowley hard just by looking at him. Well, Dean always makes Crowley hard, which can be distracting if he's in the middle of a meeting. His pet is not allowed to cover himself or avoid Crowley's attentions and he's always naked, under the demons' eyes, so beautiful that attracts every kind of lustful stare, but no–one, except Crowley, can touch him. There is something in Dean Winchester that screams of submission, it's so decadent and hot seeing him on his knees anytime Crowley pretty much winks at him, or on his lap, riding him like an obedient little slut when Crowley is in the middle of a meeting.  
  
Crowley knew that Purgatory would have broken Dean's will, spirit and everything. Dean, with his humanity still on display, is the perfect doll to be used by every kind of monster. He wasn't exactly expecting the monsters to make Dean their whore, more to tear him up into a million pieces, but that boy has a real talent to have a way through every dimension. He would have never thought of him as a possible pet, until Kevin had a Revelation.  
  
Crowley still doesn't know where God is, but apparently, he's still alive and likes to put his hands everywhere. Unfortunately for Crowley, God doesn't really want to leave the realm, his presence is still lingering, in the flesh of prophets and Nephilims that seem to have multiplied in the last year. Anyway, Crowley has a prophet too and there is no Revelation that he can miss.  
  
A couple of months ago, Kevin gave him another prophecy, this one about the Righteous Man.  _'He will have the keys to the Other Realm_ '. The only human who went to Purgatory, so Crowley immediately thought about Dean. Purgatory is one of his forgotten dreams, the impossible reality to conquer, but, unlike Castiel, Crowley knows how to wait and strike at the right time.  _Now_  is the right time, so he just needs to have the Righteous Man in his hands and a plan.  
  
Crowley was surprised to acknowledge that Dean was still alive. He put aside everything to get a special ride to Purgatory and when he arrived there, he had Dean Winchester sprawled on the ground, covered in blood, scars, and cum, fucked out. Such a sweet, sweet sight. No wonder why Crowley stretched his hand and asked to follow him. Dean's eyes were the eyes of a desperate man, without any shade of hope to be saved, shattered in a million pieces. He still had some spitfire, though, and Crowley admired him for that. He savoured the taste of a complete victory not with Dean Winchester completely broken from all the thousands fucks from Purgatory, but from his own acceptance of the role of Whore. Crowley's whore.  
  
“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” Crowley trails a hand along Dean's freckled cheek, smiling indulgently as his pet blinks owlishly, half–awaken, his green eyes still clouded with sleep, but he smiles at soon as he recognizes his master. “Time to wake up.”  
  
The other man stretches languidly, his fair skin making a delicious contrast with the dark silk of the sheets. There are signs of the past night around his wrists, where the metal of the handcuffs scarred the flesh; dark red bruises started to blossom, mirroring the ones Dean has on his hips, finger–shaped, where Crowley gripped him tight.  
  
"My boy," he smoothes a hand through Dean's hair, now softer and longer. Dean almost purrs under his hand, mewling like a kitten, starving for attention.  
  
Dean Winchester was broken when Crowley dragged him out of Purgatory. Sometimes he wonders if he came before, Dean would have more spitfire, but Crowley didn't really want a pet to train, just a well–behaved bitch that can play with him without have to sex–educate him. He's a busy man, after all.  
  
He did re–train him for weeks, teaching him how to become the perfect slut. The boy was a fast–learner and Alistair did most of the job, along with the threat to returning him to the hands of all the demons and monsters he killed when he was a hunter on Earth.  
  
Submission came easily to Dean. There is still a flare of the old Dean Winchester under his little pet's wantonness that sometimes stirs his eyes, but Crowley likes to keep it that way. It's refreshing for his ego, to see how the hunter is now so pliant under his fingers and knowing that under that submissive pet there is still the fierce killer of demons that gave Crowley a lot of problems in the past.  
  
"I'll be busy all day, sweetheart, but I always have the time to pass by," he places a hand on Dean's side, then he cups his ass cheek. There is still some traces of semen that oozed out from the last night and Dean moans wantonly as the tip of Crowley's fingers touches his still wet hole and the plastic plug kept inside that it's refraining more cum to slip away. He gives a gentle tug, making Dean arch his back while his cock quickly comes to life. So responsive. He straightens his posture, leaving the teasing for now. Dean lets out a mewl of disappointment, opening his eyes and trailing Crowley's movements as the King of Hell moves away from the bed and sits down on an expensive armchair.  
  
"Crowley–", Dean sits up, careful not to put too much strain on his plugged ass. He's a very sweet view but this morning Crowley wants something more from him.  
  
"How about you come here and put your beautiful lips at good use?" He smirks. "On your fours, like a good little bitch, come here."  
  
Crowley is proud of him when Dean gets on the floor, on his fours, and starts his walk of shame. Them green of his eyes is almost swallowed up by the pupils, signalling a state of high excitement. He's midway from the bed to the armchair when Crowley adds something else to have some fun.  
  
Dean stops, bowing his head, gasping in surprise as the plug inside him starts to vibrate right against his prostrate. He presses his hands against the expensive rug and clenches his hole around the source of pleasure, letting out a loud moan.  
  
"Don't you dare coming, Dean. Come here, slowly." Crowley can see Dean's cock leaking precum and grins in satisfaction. "Eyes on me, darling."  
  
Dean looks up, his cheeks red and flushed, his lips parted and already glistering with saliva. He moves and soon the sound of his deep breaths and the vibration of the plug are the only sounds in the room. When he arrives in front of Crowley's open legs, there is no hesitation in his eyes, with his teeth he undoes the fly of Crowley's expensive trousers and frees his hard cock.  
  
Dean laps the head of the cock, licking it like an eager puppy, pushing his velvety tongue into the slit and stealing a deep groan from Crowley. He licks him all over, until he has it wet with saliva, then he deep–throats him, sucking him without chocking. The heat of Dean's throat makes Crowley pushes his hips, pressing his cock into his pet's welcoming entrance. His lips are obscenely stretching around his cock, cherry red.  
  
"Rest on your knees, Dean, and push the plug deep inside you with your heels. Remember not to come."  
  
Dean moves, rising a little on his knees and the settling back, resting all his weight on his bent legs, and lets out a strained howl that vibrates around Crowley's cock. He sinks in the position, his long lashes flickering and his forehead wrinkled in concentration to maintain the position.  
  
A snarl from the hellhounds at the guard of the door signals the arrival of one of his minions. He never grants access in his rooms, but he would love to display Dean more. He makes the door open and the demon enters, stopping on the doorway when he catches the sight in front of him. He immediately hardens and Crowley smirks in satisfaction.  
  
"Something urgent?"  
  
The demon clears his throat, not risking another step. "News from the Resistance, sir." Resistance is the name that the humans gave themselves; Sam Winchester is part of it, or, one of the founders. This is such a perfect treat for Crowley that he cannot believe to his luck.  
  
The King of Hell puts a hand on Dean's head, motioning him to put more effort in his blowjob. He's ready to come and he wants to do that when the name of his slut's brother slips from his tongue.  
  
"How about it? Any news about Sam Winchester?"  
  
Dean's eyes are wide open, a gasp is surging from his throat and he nearly chokes on Crowley's cock. This gives the demon the prompt to come in the mouth of the hunter and he moves halfway, flooding Dean's face with the last spurts. Dean coughs, white liquid is coming out from his mouth and nose. Crowley is deeply amused, except he doesn't show it to Dean, he scowls at him, disappointed that he didn't swallow his come.  
  
"Dean."  
  
Dean's head snaps out and there is a fierce look in his eyes. He sets his jaw and grits his teeth, but Crowley is already grabbing his chin, tilting his head up. "What do you think you're doing?"  
  
"I–"  
  
"You're disappointing me, Dean. I don't like when someone defies my orders, especially you, after everything I've done for you." He lets his chin go, only because Dean cowers instinctively. Any trace of resistance has been wiped out and Dean's eyes are shadowed. "You're lucky I have to go to work, but tonight I'll whip you, pet."  
  
Dean shivers, not for the threat, but for what the nickname 'pet' reminds him. Alistair's nickname.  
  
"Now fuck yourself on your plug, put a good show."  
  
Dean trembles as he starts to do his best to fuck himself, his cheeks red with shame as he knows that at his back there's a demons still lurking. Crowley doesn't give him any indication about the possibility of coming, so he tries not to. When he's shaking in need and about to get off, Crowley gives him a pitiful glance.  
  
"Fuck yourself on my lap, pet."  
  
Dean rises on his legs, uncertain of what Crowley wants him to do about the plug, when the demon gives him a little nod, Dean pushes the plug out and let it fall on the ground. He straddles Crowley, facing the door and aligning his master's again hard cock into his entrance. He lowers himself until Crowley's balls are caressing his ass cheeks and starts to rock up and down.  
  
Crowley slides his hands under Dean's legs and opens him up, leaving him exposed and vulnerable in his naked and debauched beauty. He should let him fuck himself, but Crowley is being teased too much.  
  
"How about Sam Winchester?"  
  
Dean gasps again but doesn't stop meeting his King's thrusts and the demon still at the door has a few seconds of indecision before he replies. "Sam Winchester is still alive, he's –" he loses concentration when Dean moans loudly as Crowley pounds his sensitive prostate. "He's on his way to kill the last two Leviathans.”  
  
“Send a couple of demons,” Crowley suggests. “I'm tired to have him around and about, torturing Leviathans to find a way to Purgatory. Let him trap them, but have the demons to kill them. Bring Sam to me. We'll have fun with him.” Dean is shivering and Crowley leans to his ear, whispering. “Touch yourself and come.”  
  
Dean's shaking hand wraps around his hard cock and starts jacking himself. It's so close to completion and he's so full of self–loathing for getting off while two demons are discussing about his brother's demise that Crowley is smelling his desperation.  
  
“Poor moose, still trying to have access to Purgatory, still trying to save his big brother. Pity that his big brother is nothing more than my whore, not worth the trouble.” He fucks Dean harder and his pet doesn't let him down, he comes with a long moan, his tears mixing with Crowley's come.  
  
Perfect, perfect Dean. Crowley should really give him a gift for this.  
  
  
  


**–ﬡ –**

  
  
  
  
The taste of victory is sweet and intoxicating.  
  
Crowley looks at Dean, spent, asleep on the bed, in the tangle of limbs, and possessive embrace of Sam Winchester, equally nude and equally fucked out. The King of Hell doubted Sam will have capitulated at the same way as Dean, but Crowley knows well how to use the weaknesses of his enemies as leverage to bring them to his side. It worked with Dean – the promise of leaving Purgatory and choose to bow, not to his torturers but to a lesser evil – and it works for Sam.  
  
Winchesters. They’ll do anything for family.  
  
With Sam, Crowley had just to promise him to have his brother.  
  
It turned out that Sam was more worried for his brother than the destiny of his world and had no regrets to choose to stay with Dean, instead of having one last desperate attempt to save him. Crowley remembers with satisfaction when Sam saw his big brother for the first time since years, on his back, moaning in pleasure as Crowley was fucking him. Dean's eyes locked on Sam's, full of sad self–pity, but the orgasm hit anyway, stripping him down from his reticence and shame.  
  
Sam's rage was gorgeous to see. But Crowley didn't want any of that, not in his realm, not when he was fully intended to give the Winchester brothers each other. When offered, Dean raises his chin up and he eyed him with distrust, anxious for his little brother's life, but Sam jumped on the offer straight away, without doubts clouding his mind, without explanations, which spoke a lot about his yearning desire to stay with his Dean. After all, his pet was in need for a gift, since he was such a good boy.  
  
He looked at them fuck with a glint of amusement on his eyes. They fucked as they loved, harshly and yet with that brutal and naked love for each other, despite everything that happened in the last couple of years. When Crowley joined them for the second round, Sam almost snarled at him, his hands digging in Dean's flesh, unwilling to let him go, but it was Dean who approached Crowley, his eyes now soft and pliant, thankful for his little brother's presence, and Sam had to let him go. Crowley rewarded him in conceding Dean's mouth, so everything was fine and dandy.  
  
Hell is such a good place, now.  
  
But for Crowley it isn't good enough. There'll be an uproar in the next future, and he needs to have Dean accomplish the work for which Crowley entered in Purgatory and freed him.  
  
Crowley trails a hand on Dean's side, his fingertips caressing his belly. Dean stirs almost immediately, while Sam remains asleep. The older hunter turns into Sam's embrace without moving away, and looks at Crowley with expectant eyes.  
  
"I need something from you, my love."  
  
Dean nods. He clutches Sam's hand into his, pushing his back against the other's naked chest, unconsciously looking for body heat or maybe still uncertain of his master’s wishes. "Tell me."  
  
"No snagging away your Sammy." Crowley reassures. "I gave him to you, remember? I cannot take away a gift."  
  
"What is it, then?"  
  
"I need you to go back to Purgatory."  
  
Dean squirms away, whimpering. His face becomes pale, all his blood drained at the simple suggestion. "No. No. You– you promised." He probably fears for Sam too now, not just his own twisted destiny if brought back there.  
  
Crowley cups his cheek, firmly. "Darling, you have nothing to be afraid of. I'm not giving up my little whore. You belong here to Hell, now."  
  
"Then why?"  
  
"Purgatory is in uproar since you killed Eve. Demons need a Mother, Dean, they need someone that can create Alphas, I  _need_  Alphas, an army of faithful Alphas, and control over Purgatory, and you, my sweet Dean, you'll give this to me." He smiles fondly. "Call it a promotion. You're bringing bread at home too, darling. You're not just a trophy wife."  
  
"Crowley–" but there is nothing he can say or do to make Crowley change his mind. "How–"  
  
The King of Hell caresses Dean's belly, now flat. Sam's fingers are resting on Dean's belly too and Crowley finds it fascinating. Sam will probably have more use than he thought in the first place.  
  
"Don't be dumb, love." Dean looks disgusted, but Crowley presses his hand against the soft flesh. Dean will warm up at the idea as soon as he has his children in his belly. Winchesters will do anything for family, after all. "I promised that you will be only my whore and I always honour my deals. We will have millennia of fun."


End file.
